


through the stars

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arthritis, Birthday, Dean's Birthday, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Some mornings are harder than others, Dean thinks, sprawled out flat on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. Some mornings, he can crawl out of bed and muddle through the day with no problem, like years of being shredded apart and thrown into walls hasn’t caught up to him. Relatively few muscle aches, only a slight headache behind his eyes from standing under fluorescents all day, and a constant crick in his knee from an injury that never quite healed.Some days, though, he can’t move.





	through the stars

Some mornings are harder than others, Dean thinks, sprawled out flat on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. Some mornings, he can crawl out of bed and muddle through the day with no problem, like years of being shredded apart and thrown into walls hasn’t caught up to him. Relatively few muscle aches, only a slight headache behind his eyes from standing under fluorescents all day, and a constant crick in his knee from an injury that never quite healed.

Some days, though, he can’t move.

Particularly, he can’t move his fingers. One eye open, he looks at his hand, noting just how swollen it looks, fingers larger than normal but nowhere near spider bite territory. Every attempt to bend them results in fire shooting through each digit, only exacerbating the ache already hidden there, simmering just beneath the skin. No matter how hard he tries, nothing happens, and Dean lets his hand flop back down, pointedly ignoring it for another hour or so.

_Just slept on it wrong_ , he decides, and falls back asleep.

It doesn’t clear up, though. Idly, he rubs his hands in front of the television while he waits for the Mr. Coffee to finish brewing, grinding his knuckles in some semblance of comfort. Nothing works, not even running his fingers under the frigid tap or holding an ice pack. If anything, the muscles only stiffen, almost impossible to flex. His mug sits on the counter, empty, and he longs to hold it, let the warmth bleed into his skin.

As it is, all Dean can do is just look at the coffee pot and wring his hands, praying the pain abates sometime soon. Not soon enough, in his opinion.

“Hey,” Sam announces from the motel doorway, a bag of donuts in one hand and a six pack in the other, some brand Dean can’t make out. Castiel trails in after, carrying a hastily wrapped box like it’s something precious. Light pours in at their back, and Dean squints against it, acutely aware he’s still in his briefs and a loose fitting shirt. Not that anyone cares, these days, but still. “Figured you’d want breakfast. And—”

“For your birthday,” Castiel chimes in, the barest hints of a smile on his lips. Dean would entertain him, if not for the needles dancing under his skin.

That happiness dies the moment Castiel looks at him—really looks, past the near-nakedness and dark circles under his eyes, locking solely onto the way he soothes himself, no matter the pain it brings. “Thanks,” Dean says, managing a smile the best he can. Whether Sam notices or not, he doesn’t make a show of it, opting to set the food on the table and throw Dean into a hug instead. If anything, he can always chalk it up to getting older.

Over his shoulder, Dean watches Castiel and the concern on his face, and just closes his eyes, too tired to apologize.

“The big four-oh,” Sam says when he pulls back, both hands to Dean’s shoulders. “Feel like we should be throwing a party or something.”

Dean chuckles, hanging his head. Maybe if they were home and not in Oregon; here, all he wants to do is sleep and watch trash television, and figure out why his hands feel like cacti. “No parties ‘til we get everyone under the same roof,” he says with forced mirth. “So what’d y’all get me?”

-+-

Castiel waits, thankfully, until Sam disappears into the bathroom and turns on the shower, before he makes his way from the table to the side of the bed. Looking up, Dean finds Castiel’s hands waiting for him, expectant, palms facing up. “You’ve been hiding your hands all morning,” he remarks. “A difficult feat, considering.”

Sighing through his nose, Dean looks away, hands tucked between his thighs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, offering them up anyway. In the daylight, they look even worse, swollen and warm to the touch. Gingerly, Castiel bends each finger while Dean hisses through his teeth. Castiel’s touch might as well be fire, doing absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. “Figured it’s bound to catch up to me eventually.”

“As much work as you do with your hands, it’s not surprising,” Castiel mentions. “Though, arthritis normally progresses slowly, not all at once.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m gonna do something, can’t half ass it, I guess,” Dean snorts. He bends his fingertips, just to feel Castiel’s against his own, the warmth and surety there, contained in skin he knows so well. “This ain’t something you can heal, is it?”

Castiel shakes his head. Leaning down to kiss Dean’s hair, he allows Dean further into his space, arms around his waist, Castiel’s around his neck. Dean feels him breathe against his cheek, stomach rising and falling. “If it were a wound, I’d be able to tend to it. As it is, this is purely inflammation, your body’s response to repeated wear. I’m afraid there’s…”

“You don’t gotta.” Sighing, Dean grips Castiel’s coat as much as he can, ending up digging his nails into the fabric. “Guess I’m just gonna have to stock up on ibuprofen.”

“Still.” Castiel pulls away long enough to sit, pulling his legs up atop the mattress. Again, he motions for Dean’s hands, taking the time to rub between each finger until the pain feels more like a numbed ache, rather than someone dipping them into lit oil. The intimacy of it doesn’t escape him, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of watching Castiel work, gentle in a way that makes his toes curl. “I hate seeing you hurt like this, knowing there’s nothing I can do to ease your pain.”

Dean clenches his jaw, relaxes it—breathes, most of all. “It’s fine, really,” he says, as close to the truth as he can get. Arthritis, he can deal with. Considering the life he’s lived, it could be worse—he could be dead. “Just… glad I’m here. Glad you both are here. Hey.” Scooting closer, Dean tucks his feet underneath his thighs, hands still held in Castiel’s. “What’d you get me? Know Sam’s knife ain’t all you guys had.”

Said knife sits on the nightstand, a wood-handled dagger with a Damascus blade, embellished with multiple runes etched into the steel, as well as his name written in Enochian. Castiel’s touch, of course. Weeks of work under Castiel’s watchful eye, and Sam crafted what has to be the most beautiful weapon in Dean’s arsenal, both practical and for display. Sam even made the box, constructed of solid ash with solid gold inlays, and a mother of pearl finish along the edges.

If Dean cries over it, Sam will never know. Knowing him, though, he probably already does.

Releasing one of Dean’s hands, Castiel leans over to search through one of the drawers. From within, he pulls out a simple white box, probably picked up from a curb store or pilfered from one of the storage rooms back home. “I was planning on sleeping with you,” Castiel says, ignoring just how bright Dean blushes, “but I made you this instead.”

As much as he wants to, Dean can’t open the box, not without flinging the contents across the room. Castiel does it for him, popping off the lid to reveal a bracelet, strung with several wooden beads. All hand carved, from the looks of it, in the shape of imperfect ovals with small swirling patterns on each, some more ornate than others. A feather charm dangles from one bead, gleaming in the morning light, solid as steel.

A tear wells in his eye, not for the first time today. “You been whittling?” Dean asks, to which Castiel nods.

“While you slept each night, I tried my hand.” Deftly, Castiel takes the bracelet from the box and loops it around Dean’s wrist, the elastic string just tight enough to be snug. It isn’t the same as his old ones, the ones he tossed in the trash nearly a decade ago now, but this one means more than he could even imagine. “I threw the shavings outside before you woke up. This right here,” he stops to tap the feather, the charm about as long as his fingertip, “is mine.”

Dean blinks, looks up. _How_? “You—like, your actual feather?”

“It took a while to forge, but yes.” Castiel smiles, such a soft thing, and Dean kisses it off his face before he can speak again. “Our feathers could be used as weapons in the past, but no one’s used that magic in ages. I figured that this way, even if I wasn’t with you physically, you could always have a part of me close by.”

Dean can’t help it—he laughs, palming away his tears. “God, you’re a big sap,” he says, hating how his voice shakes, but delighting in the way Castiel touches him, cradling his wrists. He kisses each hand, grace spilling from his lips. Not enough to help, but the sentiment remains. “Never would’ve pegged you as a romantic, Cas.”

“I just want what’s best for you,” Castiel says, sneaking in another kiss, this one to the corner of Dean’s lips. “My offer is still on the table, as well.”

_Shit_. “Yeah, we can do—Yeah,” Dean stammers, flushing even harder with Castiel’s smirk. He’s forty years old—Castiel shouldn’t affect him like he does, but he does. “Hope you’re not expecting much outta me though, with these…” For emphasis, he waves his hands. “Not ‘til the swelling goes down, at least.”

The bathroom door clicks open, startling Dean enough to almost jump off the bed. Heart in his throat, he watches Sam cross the room, towel still wrapped around his waist, and search through his duffel. “I was just thinking, and I don’t wanna make you feel old,” Sam says, righting himself. He tosses a pair of what looks like gloves over to Dean, made of thin elastic with finger holes and a strap around the wrist. “But I’ve been using these lately. They help keep my fingers from cramping up with the cold, and I figured—”

“Since I’m over the hill now, I’m gonna need ‘em?” Dean asks in all seriousness, afterward smiling at the terror on Sam’s face. “Thanks, Sammy. Really.”

“Just wait ‘til your knees go bad,” Sam laughs, heading back to the bathroom. “I got sleeves for that too.”

The door shuts once again, and Dean looks down to the gloves. Castiel takes one and undoes the strap, motioning for Dean’s hand. “I didn’t consider compression,” Castiel says as he guides Dean’s fingers through the holes, securing the Velcro back into place. Placebo effect or not, it really does help, the tightness keeping his muscles still. “Did you pack any of your medication?”

“Yeah,” Dean says once the second glove goes on. Nimbly, he moves the bracelet out of the way, afraid of immediately breaking it. “Think we still got two days ahead of us.”

“Sam can always drive, if you don’t think you can,” Castiel offers.

Castiel coat swishes as he stands, walking over to the Mr. Coffee. With a tap, Dean watches it boil; sometimes, he really does forget Castiel is an angel, capable of feats of strength he could only imagine—and, apparently, reheating cold coffee. Taking a mug, Castiel fills it and heads back over, placing the cup between Dean’s waiting hands. Warmth spills into him, not at all like fire, but more comforting than that.

Looking into the cup, Dean spots his reflection, the wrinkles around his eyes, the gray hair poking through in places he’s ashamed to admit to. Forty—how in the world did he make it this far? “Think I might take him up on that,” he says, cautious with his first sip. “It’s my birthday, after all.”

Castiel hums and, sitting, drapes an arm around Dean’s waist, tugging him closer. Head atop Castiel’s shoulder, Dean closes his eyes and lets himself breathe, lets the mug ease the ache. “Happy birthday, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

All Dean can do is smile. “Thanks, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a cold but not even that can stop me from congratulating my son on his 40th birthday. Time to get over the hill balloons from Party City! 
> 
> Title is from the Enya song, "The Forge of the Angels". In other news, I suck at titles.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
